When I was young，
I thought， ‘He holds her dear，’
And shook with hate and fear.
But O！ ‘twas bitter wrong
If he could pass her by
With an indifferent eye.
Whereon I wrote and wrought，
And now， being grey，
I dream that I have brought
To such a pitch my thought
That coming time can say，
‘He shadowed in a glass
What thing her body was.‘
For she had fiery blood
When I was young，
And trod so sweetly proud
As ‘twere upon a cloud，
A woman Homer sung，
That life and letters seem
But an heroic dream.